Incapacitated
by Nova-chan
Summary: John takes care of Sherlock when he has an injury that is quite debilitating.


No one that knew Sherlock would have considered him clumsy. He was actually quite graceful and swift most of the time. John, however, had seen him in his less-than-finer moments, toppling over from exhaustion, walking into parking meters, and nearly dropping fragile objects when brandishing them hastily. Usually, John would just encourage him to eat an apple, or watch where he was going, or sometimes laugh.

It wasn't too surprising when he saw Sherlock trip up the stairs when they came back from lunch one afternoon. Sherlock had gotten a text from Lestrade on the walk back and had run into the house, and tried running up the stairs, with John at his heels. Five steps from the top, Sherlock pitched forward, throwing out his right arm to catch himself.

John stared at the back of him, as Sherlock rocked back and forth on his knees, groaning in pain. "What did you do?" John asked, as it looked like Sherlock was not going to get back up.

Sherlock muttered something that was muted by his mouth pressing against the stair.

"Come again?" John said patiently. It wasn't like Sherlock to put on an injury, unless there was some strangely logical motive. John tried to be calm and as enduring of Sherlock's recklessness as possible.

Finally Sherlock moved his face slightly to the side. "Ahhhh," he moaned with the effort of turning his head. "I broke something." His voice was gravelly and deep, as if just the effort of speaking was far too difficult. "Neck, shoulder…something…"

"You didn't break your neck. You fell on your front. I highly doubt that you're _that _clumsy," John teased. "Is it the right arm?" he asked, moving over to Sherlock's left side to help him up.

"Or the shoulder…or possibly the clavicle," Sherlock replied.

John slowly, with many words of caution, helped Sherlock back to his feet. He began to walk them back down the stairs. "Come on, to the hospital, back down the stairs…" John murmured to himself.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock demanded, although he kept on following John, trusting that the doctor would have his best interests in mind.

"Hospital," John repeated. He had to stop as Sherlock was trying to wrench his left arm back. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock scowled and fished in his coat pocket for his mobile. "Texting Lestrade," he answered, finding the task simply annoying one-handed.

"Give me that," John growled, snatching the phone away and tossing it into the umbrella bin. "It can wait until we get back."

Sherlock looked at John as if the doctor had just thrown his newborn baby kitten into the bin. "That's really unfair," he said finally.

"After you," John said, taking Sherlock's left arm back over his shoulder again.

/

They finally made in back four hours later. Sherlock's collarbone was broken, and now that the swelling had gone down, it come be seen poking out of his skin a little. He hated the figure-8 brace the doctor instructed him to wear. It felt like he was being restrained by his shoulders. John thought he looked like a soldier, arms back and straight like that. He and Sherlock picked up the prescription for Tramadol, and a couple of burgers, and headed back for their flat.

Of course Sherlock hadn't forgotten about his phone. The instant he was in the door he tried to pinwheel onto one side to reach his dangling left arm down into the umbrella bin. The brace prevented any kind of sensible movement, and the pain prevented pretty much any movement of his upper body, but Sherlock was determined. John silently stepped in and grabbed the phone, placing it in Sherlock's grasping hand.

"Go upstairs," John said. "You have to eat with this medication."

Sherlock gave him a look to say "You think you're sly, but you aren't." He had only clicked on his phone about ten times when he found evidence to confirm that he did not, in fact, have to eat with the Tramadol.

"Eat anyway," was John's response.

/

"Slowly, slowly…"

"Ow, ow…owowowowowow…"

"Don't contort like that!"

"Just drop me!"

"That's a horrible idea!"

"Just bring more pillows…get Mrs. Hudson…ow!"

"Just be calm and let's keep laying back. Oh…no…"

"Eeeugh…what?"

"I'm losing my grip."

"I hate you."

"Try to keep your shoulders back…oh god…"

"Try not to fall on me!"

"I am trying!"

"There…there…right there…oh god…"

"…"

"Shut up."

"Sorry."

Finally, _finally_ John managed to lay Sherlock out on the couch. Both of them were panting for breath, and now had the problem of John's arm being trapped under Sherlock.

John's body was positioned strangely, and was straining his leg muscles. "Sherlock…you think you can sit up just a little so I can get my arm?"

"No, just stay like that," Sherlock said, seriously.

"I'm taking my arm back," John stated, boldly. It only jarred Sherlock a bit when John pulled free.

"Pain killers," Sherlock demanded.

"Yes, Sayyid," John said, with fake reverence. He fetched a small cup of water and doled out two of the Tramadol for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock looked at the two pills. "I need extras," he said.

"That's dangerous," John said, proffering the two pills only.

"I need to be able to get around!" Sherlock insisted. "Think of Lestrade and how inept he is, and how he's probably helping criminals get away faster as we speak!" He threw back the two pills, then cringed although he had attempted to restrict his movement to the left side of his body.

"Do you want your chips?" John wondered, absently, gazing at the greasy container of burgers.

"I don't want anything. Except more pills."

"Well, you've got your phone, you've got pillows, you've got," John threw an afghan across Sherlock lap, "a blanket…here's your burger if you want it."

"Wait, where are you going?" Sherlock demanded.

"Showering," John replied, pulling off his coat. "Believe it or not, it isn't easy dragging your skinny arse up and down the stairs and in and out of cabs. I worked up a sweat, and now I'd like to be clean. _Stay on the couch._ I'll be back in half an hour to check on you."

Sherlock would have hmphed at that, but thought that it could possibly hurt. So he started tapping away on his mobile instead, seeing what he could do to aid Lestrade in his invalid state.

/

John had his shower and dressed himself in some pyjamas and a house robe. Then he went to check on Sherlock as promised.

Sherlock was lying stiffly on the couch, trying to rapidly fire off texts with his left hand only. He growled in irritation every few minutes when he had to backtrack to correct a typo. John noticed that the bag containing the burger hadn't moved from its spot on the floor.

"Who are you talking to?" John wondered, entering the room.

"Lestrade," Sherlock replied. "I'm deducing circles around him and I'm not even at the scene!" He didn't seem proud of that; merely annoyed at his current incapacity.

"Would you like some tea?" John offered. "Or I could switch on the telly."

"Yes, tea, fine," Sherlock snapped.

John wandered into the kitchen to turn on the kettle. "How's the pain?" he called back.

"_Splendid,_ John," Sherlock said sarcastically. "It just feels _so_ good."

"Maybe you'd like something to help you sleep," John said, innocently. He felt like he was trying to put a cranky infant to bed.

"I'm not going to sleep," Sherlock replied, clicking even more furiously on his Blackberry. "If I can't be out and about I'll have to work twice as hard from here."

John came back to the sitting room while the kettle heated up. "Well, you could at least get comfortable and into your pyjamas," he said innocuously.

Sherlock gave him a suspicious look and raised his eyebrows. "Yes, fine."

John hopped back up and plodded off to Sherlock's bedroom to retrieve some sleeping clothes. If all went according to his plan, the comfy clothes and the warm, soothing tea would soon lull Sherlock to sleep.

Getting Sherlock into the pyjamas was an entirely different challenge. After a few moments of struggling just to unbutton his shirt, they determined to leave it on, and just change his pants. John had to pry the mobile out of Sherlock's fingers to get him to cooperate. Sherlock attempted to brace himself by pressing his back into the arm of the chair while John helped him lift up his hips and slide out of his jeans.

Ten minutes of struggling later, John finally had Sherlock in his loose-fitting cotton pyjama bottoms. The tea kettle whistled and John hurried to the kitchen to switch it off. He poured out some of the hot water over an earl gray bag and brought the cup to the sitting room.

Upon seeing his flat mate, John wished he had never suggested changing Sherlock into his pyjamas. Sherlock was paper-white and breathing heavily, which aggravated the broken bone.

"John, I need more Tramadol…I believe I'm going to be ill," Sherlock gasped out.

Sherlock felt very weak and his stomach was cramping in agony. His chest was an unyielding source of fire and throbbing pain. He was barely aware of John saying something before the doctor left the room in a hurry. Sherlock shut his eyes, wondering why John had left him.

There was something shockingly cold against his forehead and Sherlock realized that he had lost consciousness for some amount of time. His ears were ringing and nothing but distorted sounds made it past the barrier. His blurry focus suddenly heightened and he saw John's face in front of his. Next he felt John's hands, one on his face and one on his good shoulder John's lips were moving, and his eyes were filled with fright tampered down by professionalism and skill.

Sherlock fought to listen to John. He knew he was saying something important. He managed to focus on the real sounds that were around him, but unfortunately, that level of consciousness brought with it fresh waves of pain from his chest and shoulder, and a plummeting feeling of nausea.

"Sherlock, it's really important that you answer my question!" John was shouting. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of agony. "Mrs. Hudson!" John yelled over his shoulder. John sounded very near to panic, and Sherlock knew that he had to force himself to talk.

"Question," Sherlock murmured. His voice was a whisper, as talking any louder would undoubtedly cause more pain to his chest.

John almost missed it. "What?" he said softly. "Sherlock, what did you say?"

Sherlock swallowed. God, even _that _hurt. "What was the question?" he repeated slightly louder.

John removed the cloth and dipped it into a bowl of cool water. Wrung it out. "I asked if you took anymore of the Tramadol while I was in the shower," he said, anxiously. He put the cloth against Sherlock's neck gently, slowly, so the coldness wouldn't shock him again.

Sherlock blinked. Had he taken more? Certainly not, as it was simply impossible for him to move from the couch and the pill bottle was all the way in the kitchen. "No," he finally answered, listlessly.

John's brow furrowed slightly more and then relaxed. "Ok, you're having a reaction, then," he said. John sat back on his haunches, folding his hands between his knees reflectively. "It's somewhat common with this type of drug, and you'll probably feel pretty terrible for a few hours…but we won't have to go to the hospital unless you start having trouble breathing, or if you get a really bad rash, ok?"

Sherlock grunted, as he shifted his legs slightly.

"Unless you want to go to the hospital," John added.

Sherlock shook his head minutely. "No," he said quietly. "Just want to stay here."

John nodded. He knew that Sherlock would probably be better off in the long run if he could stay put and rest his body. However, because of the reaction he couldn't risk giving him anything else for pain, or even for sleep.

Mrs. Hudson finally made it upstairs. "What's the matter?" she asked. She was toweling her hair, having just come from the shower.

John glanced at her and stood up, tucking the blanket closer around Sherlock in a reassuring way. "Mrs. Hudson, do you have a heated blanket or hot water bottle that we can use?"

Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock, pale and wincing in obvious pain. "I've got both, which do you prefer?"

John smiled gratefully. "Hot water bottle. But don't fill it too full; it can't be too heavy."

When Mrs. Hudson left to get the bottle, John continued to bathe Sherlock's face and neck with the cool cloth. He paused to take a temperature, and was pleased with the results. "Your fever isn't too bad. How's the nausea?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but cringed and fell silent. He looked up at John with clouded eyes that communicated pain and sickness.

"That's okay," John assured him. "It's going to pass."

Mrs. Hudson brought them her hot water bottle and two cups of herbal tea meant to relieve joint pain. John thanked her and set the tea aside. He turned to Sherlock, his expression grim. "The pressure is going to be painful," he warned, showing him the water bottle with its pink fleece cover, "but the heat is going to make you feel a lot better."

Sherlock shuddered as a new swell of nausea and anguish hit him. John carefully positioned the hot water bottle to rest against Sherlock's neck and chest, distributing the weight as best he could to not lie directly over the broken bone. Sherlock didn't make any sounds of pain, but when John backed away to look at his face, he saw tears gathering in his flat mate's eyes.

"Just try to sleep, Sherlock," John said, smoothing back a few locks of dark, unruly hair. "I'll be right here if you need anything." John sat across in his chair and watched as Sherlock trembled, his eyes closed in silent torment.

John stayed up watching Sherlock until the very early hours of the morning. Finally, after Sherlock had been still and restful for about forty-five minutes, John drifted to sleep in the armchair across from him.

In the morning, Sherlock's nausea was gone when he woke up. He tried pushing himself up to sitting, but failed miserably and yelped, waking John. John walked over to the couch, eyes still closed, and knelt beside Sherlock. He placed a hand to his ill friend's forehead, in a rudimentary test for remaining fever.

John cracked his eyes open and smiled. "No more fever," he reported. "Feeling any better?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

John got up to his feet. "I think it'll be safe for you to take some paracetamol now. I'll call you in a different prescription for the pain and pick it up later." He retrieved a glass of water and the bottle of pain pills for Sherlock.

Sherlock took the pills and then attempted to push away the heavy wool blanket over him. John pulled it off for him and draped it over the side of the couch. Sherlock's clothes were wrinkled and matted from sweat. Sherlock grimaced and avoided John's eyes. "I need to bathe," he said.

John smiled reassuringly. "We can do a sponge bath if you like," he offered. "Getting you in and out of the tub right now seems like a horrible idea."

Sherlock frowned. "Ok…but I still need to make use of the bathroom."

With John's assistance, Sherlock raised up from the couch and made his way into the bathroom on his own. Some ten minutes later, he reappeared, panting from the simple exertion of fixing his clothing.

"Do you want to get into bed?" John asked as Sherlock stiffly walked around the corner.

Sherlock pondered that for a moment. "Will you bring my latptop?" he asked.

"Sure thing," John said. "Would you like anything to eat before I head for the pharmacy?"

"No…but can you bring the telly into my room?"

"What for?"

"News. It's dreadfully impossible to hold a newspaper like this," Sherlock said, hating how pathetic he sounded.

"Ok," John sighed. He assisted Sherlock into bed, wincing in sympathy as Sherlock screwed his eyes shut in obvious pain. He brought the laptop from the kitchen table, then fetched the television with all its wires and plug-ins and set it upon Sherlock's bureau.

"And, here's your phone," John said, tucking his friend into his bed with the remote for the TV. "I should be back in an hour or so and then we'll try doing the sponge bath." Sherlock grumbled at that, but didn't really see any alternative.

John left to pick up Sherlock's new medication, hoping that he would get some sleep sometime.

/

John returned with a packet of Lortabs and a bottle of milk, since drinking milk was as close to taking the pills on a full stomach as Sherlock would oblige him. He poured out a glass of milk and took it and the pills to Sherlock's bedroom.

He knocked then entered. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was white as a sheet of notebook paper. He was clutching the bed sheets tightly and his face was set into a grimace of pain. John rushed over to the bed and felt his friend's forehead with the palm of his hand.

"Pain pills?" Sherlock asked between his teeth.

John poured two of the pills into his hand and fed them to Sherlock, helping him swallow milk after them. Sherlock was making obvious efforts to stay as still as he possibly could. John sat across from him in Sherlock's chair and watched him, concerned.

Sherlock, eyes closed, said, "Stop watching me, John. It's unsettling."

John cringed. "Right, sorry," he said. He took the remote from where it rested next to Sherlock's arm and turned on the TV. Twenty minutes later there was a tangible change in the atmosphere of the room. John turned away from the talk show he had on and darted a glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock caught his look. "I feel great now," he said. "Don't want to move though…"

"Well that is conducive to healing," John remarked smiling. "Ready for me to clean you up a bit?"

Sherlock frowned. "Can I not be put through such an indignity? I'll be asleep in about eighteen minutes…why not wait until then?"

John stared at him blankly. "I am not going to give you a bath while you're unconscious. That crosses lines of unethical that I don't want to discuss right now."

"And what do you do with a comatose patient? Let them rot in their own filth and dirt?"

"Of course not," John said. "But there are treatment plans involved and human rights violations to be considered…I just…" John blushed. "I would feel more comfortable if you were awake."

Sherlock looked down. "Fine. Do what you will."

John nodded in thanks and left to retrieve some items from the bathroom pantry and the kitchen. When he returned, Sherlock's eyes were closed but they snapped open when John made a noise walking across the floor. Neither of them knew quite what to say so John simply set up his materials on the bedside table and soaked a blue hand cloth in the bowl of warm water and mild soap.

Sherlock found that he couldn't stay awake under John's careful, gentle ministrations. The feel of strong hands and the warmth of the cloth against his neck and tenderly down his chest quickly had him nodding off. John, as it turned out, didn't find it to be the great ethical violation he thought it would be. Being careful of the broken bone, he stroked Sherlock's exposed skin with the damp cloth until he was clean and peacefully asleep.

/

Several high-pitched noises woke John from his nap on the couch. He grabbed for his mobile and saw that he had received 18 new texts. His throat tightened as he immediately thought that the texts were all from Sherlock, who was asking for help. His fear subsided when he saw that they were all from Lestrade, Donovan and Mycroft.

The general consensus of the texts was along the lines of "Please for the love of God entertain Sherlock because we can't take it anymore!"

One very colorful text from Mycroft had contained a very non-idle threat of sending over a team of international thieves if John couldn't entertain him. John smirked and went to Sherlock's room. As expected, Sherlock was propped up on pillows, texting rapidly.

"Sherlock…" he tried.

"Hmm."

"Give me your phone and I'll bring you more Lortabs."

A raised eyebrow.

"And I'll read some things out of the newspaper."

A frown.

"And I will delete the pictures I took of you letting me give you a sponge bath."

"…deal."

/

Marill: Yup, that's the end! I am terrible at ending stories, lol! But hopefully you enjoyed the run of it! :D


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